


Picardy

by glockmonkey



Series: glock’s safehouse oneshots [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Crossover, M/M, Piano, Self-Indulgent, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Technically..., The Mechanisms Were Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist's College | University Band, Too Much Yearning, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, martin plays piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28806309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glockmonkey/pseuds/glockmonkey
Summary: There is a piano in the Safehouse. Martin knows hymns. Jon was in a cabaret band in uni. Let's see where this goes.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: glock’s safehouse oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186610
Comments: 18
Kudos: 88





	Picardy

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for: 
> 
> -Implied police brutality (unresolved, thought it did happen in the past) (it's Daisy)  
> -Implied past mention of abuse  
> -Mention and brief discussion of being raised Catholic & being forced into religion  
> -Brief grief talk  
> -Firearm mentions  
> -Cursing  
> -Impending dread/Paranoia
> 
> I wrote a thing! Several bits of this fic have been bouncing around in my gremlin mind for a while, so I finally did something about it :)

There was something in the corner, and Jon and Martin were both avoiding it. 

Hours had passed like this - aimlessly opening cupboards in the kitchen, putting away what little belongings they had brought with them, taking inventory of what they had and didn’t have - and walking up and down the stairs, pointedly looking away from the tarp-covered mass directly beside it. 

Jon had noticed it in the first ten minutes they had been in Daisy’s safehouse. He didn’t want to know what was under the cover. 

He’d seen Martin walk by it a few times, almost tentatively, the same way he did when he could see Jon was having a bad time of it. With Jon, he stopped. With the Thing in the corner, he kept walking. 

That’s what Jon had started calling it. The Thing. Capital “T.”

Jon stared at it from the sofa, arms crossed across his chest.

“We should probably look under it eventually,” said Martin from the armchair. He didn’t have to sit that far away. 

Jon considered inviting him to the sofa. “Hmph,” he said instead.

“Maybe we should?” Martin continued. “I mean, we probably have to do it eventually.”

“Rip off the bandaid, and all that.”

“Exactly!” 

“I just hope it isn’t… you know.” He grimaced, turning away from the Thing. “Violent. Or something.”

“Now you’ve gone and jinxed it, Jon.”

“Sorry,” said Jon.

There was a pause. 

“Alright!” burst Martin suddenly. “If it’s something gruesome then so be it, I can’t stand not knowing-”

“-oh, thank god, me too-”

“-so let’s get started on the world’s most horrendous unboxing.”

Jon leaped to his feet and strode across the room, Martin following suit. 

They stood in front of the Thing’s menacing figure. It towered imposingly, being only about a foot smaller than Jon. A rectangular shape, the Thing was, with a big chunk taken out of it in the front. 

Martin startled suddenly, darting back from the Thing.

Jon yelped. “What?” he demanded.

“Nothing. Just, uh.” Martin gestured to a tear in the tarp. “Just. It’s wood.”

Jon squinted through the gash from afar, keeping his distance. 

“Could be another coffin..?” suggested Martin, voice climbing in pitch.

“Couldn’t be. I would’ve heard the tape recorder click on.” 

“It could be of a un-supernatural kind.”

“Oh, for christ’s sake,” grumbled Jon. He grabbed the tarp and pulled.

The small room was suddenly filled with dust. Jon coughed into the sleeve of his cardigan as the air cleared, squinting through the gray particles that filled the air. 

Before him stood: what, a box? A tall thing made of dark wood. Another, ornately carved piece of wood was attached to the middle of the box. 

Jon cleared his throat. “I’m not entirely sure this  _ isn’t _ a coffin.”

Martin stared at it, grinning slightly. “It’s a piano.”

Jon’s gaze dropped to the bottom of the Thing, spying the long stool tucked underneath.  _ Ah. _

“Why does Daisy have a piano at her safehouse?” wondered Jon aloud. “She doesn’t seem like the type.”

“It probably came with the place,” said Martin, running his hands over the piano, which Jon could now see was engraved with more designs like the piano’s front. “It’s too big to transport without either breaking or paying a fortune in delivery fees.”

“Do you play?” asked Jon. “Piano, I mean.”

“I used to,” Martin answered. “Mum made me learn. For church.”

“Oh. I’m sorry if it brings up… bad memories.”

“It’s okay. I liked it. It was...” he paused, pulling the bench out from underneath the piano. “Nice to have something to do with my hands.”

“I can understand that,” said Jon, and perched on the edge of the piano seat. Martin joined him, facing towards the piano’s keys. 

“Maybe I ought to take it up again,” he muttered to himself, opening a long panel to reveal the keys underneath. 

“You could play something now, if you wanted to,” Jon said, against his better judgement.

“Yeah? Like what?”

He hadn’t thought this far. 

Was there anything Martin might reasonably know? Jon wasn’t really one for hymns. 

Except… well. There was one. 

“Do you know Picardy?” asked Jon.

“Sure,” said Martin, and began to play.

Jon watched him as his fingers moved across the keys, slowly at first, and then faster, as muscle memory urged him onwards. He could tell he’d played this often, over the years. After a few measures, Martin started improvising; a grace note here, an extra riff there. He knew they didn’t belong, after years of hearing the tune, but Jon didn’t say anything.

And suddenly, all at once, Martin stopped. 

He was looking at him. Jon didn’t know what to say. 

“You’re really good,” he managed.

“Really?” asked Martin. “I’m surprised I remembered it, actually.” He laughed. 

“I thought it was great,” said Jon, more earnestly than he expected. 

“Well,” Martin turned away. “Thank you. Jon.” 

Jon smiled in response, then realized all too late that Martin couldn’t see him.

“It’s nearly seven,” said Martin. “I don’t think we have any food.”

“We should probably go down to the village.”   
  


“We should.”

“We should.”

Neither of them moved.

\---

In the week they’d been at the safehouse, Martin had re-taught himself upwards of ten songs. The first one he’d remembered had been a lucky coincidence; he was surprised he’d been able to play at all, with Jon watching. 

Jon. He was here, with him. He shared the bed. He folded the laundry. He chopped the carrots and fried the meat in the pan instead of Martin and didn’t ask why.

He liked when Martin played piano. 

At least, he said that he did. Martin had caught him swaying in the living room yesterday, and had almost moved to join him until he realised it was him playing the music. 

So he had kept playing, like a rational person. Even if he wasn’t much of a rational person these days, anyways. 

It was fine. He was fine. More so, these days, than others. 

It was routine, really, when he sat down at the piano for the first time that evening. He’d wiped off the counter, and stacked the bowls by the sink and Jon had assured him that yes, he was fine doing the dishes, and Martin had cooked most of dinner today anyways, and Martin deserved to put his feet up for a bit. And so here he was. It wasn’t like there was much else to do, really. 

Stretching his fingers, once by one. Backwards, forwards. In, out. 

He remembered every motion by reflex. He hadn’t played in years; his flat was too small to hold a decent piano, and it wasn’t like he had the money for one. 

Playing scales. Up, down. C major, D minor, F major, et cetera, et cetera. 

Maybe he ought to teach piano. They couldn’t live on paper money forever, and it would be nice to actually have a source of income if they were going to stay here. 

Wait. No. He couldn’t afford to think like that. They were wanted by the police, not to mention the overwhelming amount of avatars that wanted them both dead.

Arpeggios. Back, forth.

But still, it would be nice to stay, wouldn’t it?

Martin spared a glance at the kitchen, where Jon was scrubbing at a particularly stubborn mark on the saucepan. 

Picardy. 2/2 time. Right hand, D, C. Left, F, D. 

He could feel Jon Watching him play. 

A chord. A, C, F, G. 

Jon Looked away. Martin was glad of it, but at the same time, he wasn’t.

Five notes, legato. Hell to sing when you were already short of breath. 

The saucepan was rinsed, and placed on a towel beside the sink to dry.

Ending chord. Repeat. 

Jon’s voice rang out softly from the kitchen. Martin hadn’t thought he was religious, but he seemed to know the song well enough. His voice was… nice. 

A, C, F, G. 

_ “ _ _ Never leaving dreamless slumber, in a mind that's broken and worn…” _

Legato. Martin wondered if Jon could hold the note.

_ “Guarded by uncounted ready guns and blades…” _

Wait, those weren’t the words. He’d heard many hymns to this tune, and none of them involved firearms. 

He fumbled, and then stopped. Jon stopped singing his strange tune, and Martin instantly regretted it. He cursed at the keys, as if they were responsible. 

“You’ll get it,” called Jon from the kitchen. 

Martin grinned in acknowledgement. He placed his fingers back on the keys, and then stopped. 

“What were you singing just now?” he asked. 

Jon furrowed his eyebrows. “Hmm?”

“You were singing. Something about ‘ready guns and blades.’”

“Ah. So I was.” 

“Didn’t sound like any version of Picardy I’ve heard.”

“It, uh. It isn’t.” Jon cleared his throat. “I was in a band. In uni.”

_ Holy shit.  _ “A band?” 

“Um. Yeah. ‘Storytelling Musical Cabaret.’ We did… a lot of filked songs. Mostly based on folklore.”

“Hold on.”

“Holding on.”

“You were in a band?”

Jon leaned against the countertop. “That is a true statement.”

“And you didn’t  _ tell me?” _

“I’m telling you now!”

“God, if only I’d have known. You would’ve been a million times less intimidating.”

“Martin,” protested Jon, grinning slightly. 

“Oh, god, did you wear  _ eyeliner? _ ”

“ _ Martin _ .”

Martin’s grin fell slightly. “Tim and Sasha would’ve had a field day with this.”

“They, er.” Jon cleared his throat. “They did.”

“ _ What? _ ” exclaimed Martin. “And they didn’t tell me!” 

“I made Tim swear, but he’d already told Sasha.”

“Wait. April Fool’s day?”

Jon nodded gravely. “April Fool’s day.”

“The belts!”   
  


“The belts.”

“Your costume must’ve been a sight to see, then.” Martin wished he could see pictures. They didn’t have their phones, though, so that was out. 

“You’re not missing out on much,” said Jon. He picked up a mug and began scrubbing at it again. “Picture a lot of belts, and eyeliner, and goggles.”

“‘Not missing out on much,’ he says. Did I mention there were goggles’, he says.”

Jon laughed. 

“So, the song,” Martin said. “Sounds neat.”

“Thanks. I mean, I didn’t write it myself, and I only sang a bit of it. But thanks.”

“Want to, uh.” Martin tapped his fingers nervously. “Sing it? With the piano?”

“I don’t know if I still know the words.”

“C’mon.” Martin moved on the piano stool, leaving a Jon-sized space.

Jon grinned. 

\---

_ “T _ _ rapped within the warmth and the darkness, from the waking world I was torn _

_ Never leaving dreamless slumber, in a mind that's broken and worn _

_ Guarded by uncounted ready guns and blades _

_ Sharper than a barrier of thorns _

_ Once, out in the sky I was happy, faintly I remember the sun _

_ Soaring thr _ _ ough the dawn and its brightness, battle, beauty; both had I won _

_ Then a flash of pain as metal pierces flesh _

_ And all at once my roaming it was done _

_ Wires through my veins and my tendons, keeping safe my hateful old lord _

_ Protecting his infernal defence grid, unwillingly my lifeblood is poured _

_ I once heard them say a kiss could wake me up _

_ But I hope my prince will bring a sword.” _

**Author's Note:**

> The song Jon is singing is Sleeping Beauty by The Mechanisms.
> 
> My tumblr is @glockmonkey ! slide into my inbox and tell me what you thought of the fic :)
> 
> have a great day, take care of yourself, and stay hydrated!


End file.
